Who Can Hold a Memory?
by SongtotheMoon17
Summary: "What sort of life is this for you? You are a French woman, Marguerite. You do not belong in this cold land—with no one to understand you, to touch you." Finally giving in, Marguerite looked up to meet his eyes and saw the sincerity in them. "The girl I knew could not bear this another moment." What if Chauvelin had succeeded in seducing Marguerite that night? T for loose adultery.


**Warning: This is related more to the musical than the books. You have been warned.**

Who Can Hold a Memory?

Chapter I: The Girl I Knew

Marguerite watched as Percy jollily walked away, making jokes and worrying about his appearance as usual. Her gaze turned toward Chauvelin, who stood staring after her husband in confusion for a few moments. Slowly, he turned back towards her, a peculiar expression of confusion and amusement contorting his features.

"I could book you passage with me on the boat back to France, my dear," he told her quite seriously, despite the apparent joking expression in his eye.

Return to France? It certainly was a tempting offer. Oh, how she missed her home, her friends, the stage! And what difference would it make to Percy anyway? He could barely even stand to look at her, let alone love her properly. If only he could love her as he once did, back in Paris. But no, she loved Percy, even if he didn't love her. And she would stand by him and do whatever it would take to rekindle their love, no matter how long it took.

"This," Marguerite started, gesturing around her to the garden and Blakeney Palace, "is my home."

She sat gracefully on one of the circular benches that surrounded one of the many large rose bushes, smirking inwardly at his shocked expression. Once more, he stood silent as he stared at her. Part of her knew what he was thinking when he stared at her as he did, but another, more prominent part, pushed it from her mind.

"I see," Chauvelin trailed hesitantly. "So. You have traded Rousseau for the rose garden, and I, apparently, am replaced by that."

He looked in the direction Percy had exited, rolling his eyes, and walked closer to Marguerite so that he was almost touching her now. The young woman simply averted her eyes and attempted to avoid the man and his charms.

"Most intriguing," he mused in a bored tone. "Tell me, Marguerite," he added, moving closer to her and leaning down so his lips were by her ear. "How do we compare? Exactly what sort of . . . lover is your husband?"

Marguerite felt a sting in her heart and she turned her head away to avoid Chauvelin's gaze once more. How could she say? If she were to tell him their marriage was not yet consummated due to his refusal to touch her for some unknown reason, he would only think him a fool and set out to mock him.

"Oh my god," she heard him start in mock disbelief. "You don't know! Do you?" The man laughed slightly and moved away from her, but not too far. "Yes, of course, a man like that would simply be lost in your bed."

Marguerite turned to face Chauvelin, her face red with embarrassment and rage. "What do you know of it, Chauvelin?" she snapped. "You and I never loved each other." She turned away from the man stubbornly and set her lips in a firm line. "Go now. Leave me."

She sat and waited for the sound of retreating footsteps signifying Chauvelin's departure from the garden. But they never came. Instead, they only came closer and stopped in front of her. To avoid her gaze, she kept her eyes trained down on his boots. Why would he not leave her?

"How can I leave you?" he asked in a surprisingly affectionate tone. "What sort of life is this for you? You are a French woman, Marguerite. You do not belong in this cold land—with no one to understand you, to touch you." Finally giving in, Marguerite looked up to meet his eyes and saw the sincerity in them. "The girl I knew could not bear this another moment."

Once more, she tried to turn away, but Chauvelin knelt down in front of her and gently took her chin in his hand, forcing her to meet his gaze.

_I remember days full of restlessness and fury, I remember nights that were drunk on dreams. I remember someone who hungered for the glory; I remember her . . . but it seems she's gone._

Those nights. She remembered them too. As much as she hated to admit it, she actually missed them. She missed the nights when she could just lay in his arms as he whispered to her of the dreamland they would live in once the Revolution was through. The land the two of them had imagined France to be from the moment they had met.

Some nights, they simply lay in one another's embrace silently, wishing not to ruin the moment. Those were the nights after a long day during the Revolution when all they wanted to do was be together and dream of what their lives could be.

But he was right. That girl was gone. She disappeared the minute the Revolution took him and claimed him for its own. When she said she had never loved him, she had lied. She had loved him. But she couldn't any longer. Not after he broke her heart and chose the Revolution over her. Yes, she had been a child of the Revolution once as well, but now that girl was gone. She knew where her loyalties lie.

_Where's the girl, where's the girl with the blaze in her eyes? Where's the girl with that gaze of surprise? Now and then I still dream she's beside me._

She remembered the day they had met. It had been a year after the Revolution had started. She remembered pushing through tightly packed crowds of people to return home to her brother after a morning of rehearsals with the Comédie Francaise. Guns and cannons were being fired into the streets at the rebelling citizens, and Marguerite remembered running into one of the King's men, who grabbed her violently and held her. From there, she didn't remember exactly what had happened except suddenly the soldier was on the ground and a man not much older than she was pulling her through the streets by her wrist.

"This is no place for a lady, mademoiselle," he had told her. "It's not safe."

She had merely stared at him in surprise. Everything had happened so fast. One moment, she had thought it would be the end and she would become part of the inevitable blood bath in the streets outside of the palace, and the next, she was standing in a deserted street with a man who had managed to protect her; a stranger, who he didn't even know.

"I am Armand Chauvelin," he introduced himself, bowing slightly to her and kissing her hand.

She had felt a slight blush creep over her cheeks at the man's charms. "_Enchantée,_" she greeted softly.

Armand had looked up from her hand. "_Enchantée_," he repeated, gently releasing her hand. "Mademoiselle . . .?"

"St. Just," she had replied. "Marguerite."

He smiled at her and she felt her heart quicken in pace slightly. He certainly was charming. "Marguerite."

_Where's the girl who could turn on the edge of a knife? Where's the girl who was burning for life? I can still feel her breathing beside me._

A few weeks after she had met him. That's when she had finally started to get the hang of the self-defense lessons Chauvelin had started to give her. "So you can protect yourself when I am not around, _mon amour,_" he had said.

She had been doing fine until he had disarmed her knife and pinned her against the wall. Eyes wide, she stared at him, unsure of what to do. Slowly, she brought her dark eyes up to meet his icy blue gaze. Part of her was aware of his face slowly getting close to hers, as if he were going to kiss her. Another part of her was aware of the extra knife he always carried in its sheath attached to his side. As she carefully pulled the knife from its sheath, she continued to keep her eyes locked with his. Feeling his grip on the knife loosen around her where it had been on her neck and his hand fell away as he took her by the waist. Taking this as her moment, she brought the knife up to disarm his own and flip him around so he was now pinned against the wall with the knife against his neck. She smirked at him.

For a moment, he had simply stared at her in shock before smirking himself and beginning to clap slowly. "Bravo, mademoiselle," he complimented. She lowered the knife and backed away from him, allowing him more freedom. "You outsmarted me; I taught you well."

_And I know she remembers how fearless it feels to take off with the wind at her heels. She and I took this world like a storm. Come again! Let the girl in your heart tumble free; bring your renegade heart home to me. In the dark of the morning I'll warm you; I'll rouse you._

Marguerite took the risk at that moment to look up into Chauvelin's eyes. Instantly, she looked away when she noticed the sincerity and the pain in his eyes. No, he was not allowed to be the one who was pained about this. He was the one who had chose politics over her. Subconsciously, she felt him sit on the bench next to her and put a large hand over her small, delicate one in her lap. As an immediate reaction, she pulled her hand away and turned her back even further on him. She didn't want to look at him; she didn't want to see if. For she knew if she did, she would fall and wouldn't be able to help the love she knew she felt for him rise to the surface.

Despite turning away from him, she couldn't help but notice him move closer to her and place his hands on her shoulders gently. She closed her eyes and sighed. The girl in her heart who had once loved him was begging for him to hold her the way he was had.

_Marguerite, don't forget I know who you are; we were cut from the same surly star. Like two jewels in the sky sharing fire._

He did; he knew who she was better than anyone. Better even that Armand, her brother. They shared the same dreams once; they only wanted a better world for the people of France. Oh, how she missed those days with only him.

_Where's the girl so alive and still aching for more? We had dreams that were worth dying for. We were caught in the eye of a storm._

Dreams that were worth dying for . . . that certainly was true. It seemed the majority of France had that dream as well, if for slightly different purposes.

She remembered one of the last days they had spent together; he had told her that he was going to join the Committee of Public Safety. And she knew the Committee went against the King, and it represented everything the Revolution stood for. But for some reason, she couldn't bear to let him go.

That had been the last time she had kissed him as well, alone in her dressing room after one of her performances. She couldn't bear to let go of him at that moment. She had let him take her in that moment, and let him hold her in his arms for the rest of the night. But the next day, she had learned to regret that decision. For that was the day she had made him choose, after months of being with him.

_Come again! Let the girl in your heart tumble free; bring your renegade heart home to me. In the dark of the morning I'll warm you; I'll rouse you._

At that moment, Marguerite was pulled from her thoughts of their past and up into Chauvelin's arms, once more looking into his icy blue eyes that, oddly, didn't seem so icy now. She felt herself melt into his arms, as if she belonged there. Slowly, he reached up a gentle hand and caressed her cheek.

It was his touch that did it. Suddenly, she was falling again, falling for him, harder than she had the first time. She couldn't help the tears that came to her eyes and the tiny gasp that escaped her lips. If she tried hard enough, maybe she could bring back the part of him that didn't want anything to do with him.

_Where's the girl? Is she gazing at me with surprise? Do I still see that blaze in her eyes? Am I dreaming, or is she beside me now?_

She stared at him as he pulled her closer to him and placed his lips upon hers. Her eyes closed instantly and she melted into the kiss, feeling once more the spark she had felt when she had been with him before. At that moment, she knew, he had found the girl. The one she had kept hidden in her heart for months to prevent the hurt from reaching it. He had found her, and she knew he wouldn't be letting her go this time around.

He pulled back from her and looked her in the eye. She couldn't hide it anymore, not when she was staring in his eyes; he could see that she truly was, and always had been in love with her. Slowly, she turned her head to look toward the door on the patio. She knew that at any moment, Percy could come through those doors and she her in Chauvelin's embrace. And she couldn't bear for that to happen, not when she still had hope that Percy still loved her.

Marguerite turned to look back into his blue eyes, gently bringing her delicate hand to caress his cheek. "Go now," she whispered, glancing toward the door to let him know of her fears, but still assure him that he had succeeded in regaining her. He turned his gaze towards the door and then nodded in understanding. Kissing her lightly, he turned and left the garden.

Percy couldn't know; he couldn't find out about them. He could never find out.

**Disclaimer: I do not own the Scarlet Pimpernel. In fact, the very beginning of this chapter is taken from lines in the musical.**

**Authors Note: hey everyone! Thanks so much for taking the time to read this! Now, this is my first Scarlet Pimpernel story so I have no clue how my characterization is. My intention was to make both of them seem a little more vulnerable in this chapter. This COULD stand as a one-shot, but I have a full story in mind so I will make it into a multi-chap. Please take the time to leave a review guys, if you would like to leave suggestions or just tell me what you think! Please no flames. Thanks and I will update as soon as possible!**


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